


Reboot

by srsly_yes



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick!Wilson, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-03
Updated: 2011-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:06:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srsly_yes/pseuds/srsly_yes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long overdue prompt from <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/sickwilson_fest/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/sickwilson_fest/"></a><b>sickwilson_fest</b>: <em>Wilson is injured/has a medical condition in childhood which leaves him with a permanent limp. How does that affect his friendship with House?</em> Be warned, I took a somewhat different approach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reboot

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** [H]ouse is not mine or ever will be.
> 
>  **Beta** : The ever awesome [](http://hwshipper.livejournal.com/profile)[**hwshipper**](http://hwshipper.livejournal.com/)  
> 

  
“Patient in exam room four,” says nurse ‘D’ cup, and hands House the file.

He grabs a stethoscope, and ignores her shouts by shutting door three behind him.

Inside, a young female is buttoning up her blouse. The new doctor swivels in his chair. House brightens but groans inwardly. The good news is the new guy is easy on the eyes. The bad—he’s competition for female personnel. House tests the waters with his own pick-up line.

“Word on the street says you crush on the Stone Crusher. I can get us tickets in time for Saturday’s competition.” House waits expectantly for the man’s response to his brash proposal.

The doctor scribbles on a prescription pad, and hands the paper to the patient. House notes no wedding ring or tan line on the left finger.

Doctor Bedside Manner doesn’t miss a beat. He ignores House and smiles reassuringly at his patient, signaling the end of the examination. She hastily grabs her jacket and purse, and makes a wide arc around House as she heads for the door.

Dark, quizzical eyes train on him. “You must be House. Dr. Cuddy warned me about you.”

“Don’t mind her. As head zookeeper that’s her job and why she earns the big bucks."

“Are the nurses on some kind of commission? They had a lot to say.”

The doctor rises from his chair, and House assesses the man from head to fancy thin-soled shoes. He is tallish with a small paunch overflowing his belt.

“Never trust the nurses, they want me all to themselves.”

“The day janitor had some choice words, self-centered—“

“That’s a lie!” House flourishes his cane. “If I were, would I be offering you chance of a lifetime tickets?”

“To go with _you_ to watch monster trucks? Proves nothing.” The man works the dimple in his cheek. “Are you paying?”

House doesn’t blink at the question. He knows the value of an investment. Spend upfront, reap the rewards later. “Of course. It’s a date, then?”

“Whoa! Not so fast. I like to be wooed.” The guy looks at his watch. “Take me to lunch first.”

“Lunch?” House likes the idea. He’s hungry.

“And pay for it.”

“Pay?” House whines in mock amusement. This guy is shaping up to be a pushover. “Okay, lead on, love of my life,” House glances at the nametag, “Jack.”

The doctor’s eyes cross as he flips the tag up to read it. “Actually, it’s James.” He smiles, wryly, as he limps to the door. “I’ll get security to fix it after lunch.”

“Keep it. There’s no Jack Wilson, but there’s another James in ophthalmology. It’ll cut your hall consults in half.” And save the discomfort of standing for long in one place. House leaves that part out as he walks to the cafeteria beside his new jack, James. The rumors are true. The guy does limp. Favors his left leg, and it proves to be a logistic snafu. They’re birds of a feather with clipped wings, waddling like grounded ducks, bumping shoulders.

‘J’ man sighs and sidles a foot away. “Until we get into a rhythm, I refuse to hold hands.”

House nods. The remark has the quality of fine champagne, so dry it evaporates on the tongue. The way he likes his drink and banter. “If you insist on being formal, I’ll call you by your last name.”

  


* * *

The mechanical equivalent of Wrestlemania, plus flames, crushed motor homes, foot-longs, and mega-sized buckets of popcorn are the quintessential bonding experience. House is amused by the drawl in Wilson’s speech and a hiccupped giggle from time to time—souvenirs of the beer he consumed.

House’s intoxication doesn’t hit him until they’re outside the stadium. They had run late at the hospital, and when they got there the disabled parking spots were all full. It galls him. Probably no more than half the people have legitimate reasons for placards.

In the scramble not to miss the opening event, he is clueless as to where he parked his car. He stares at the miles of metal and taillights.

Wilson wags a knowing finger. “You lost your car.”

Maybe they bonded too closely. Wilson is a mind reader. “Tell me something I don’t know. Like where we parked it. You were with me.”

“Near a taaaaall lamppost.” Wilson points to the moon peeking through the clouds. “That was near it.” He sways from the effort, but easily readjusts by distributing his weight to his right leg.

House is curious about Wilson’s left. Not a new injury by the way Wilson automatically compensates. “Astronomers still mourn the day you entered med school.”

Wilson’s eyes screw up in thought. “’F.’ There was a sign with a ‘F.’”

“F1, 2, 3… ?”

“Could be, or a combination.”

“Let’s start walking.” House jostles through the hordes of people, following the perimeter of the stadium until they reach section F. Sliding his back against the chain link fence, he slowly sinks to the ground. He studies the ticket-strewn sidewalk and releases a disgruntled sigh. “Might as well wait until the cars and crowds thin out. Can’t see more than ten feet ahead of me.”

Above his head, the sweet percussive sound of pills rattle in a container. A moment of silence passes before he hears Wilson’s windbreaker make a slithering whisper, smells spicy aftershave, and feels Wilson’s body heat.

He tilts his head to see if the pill bottle is still in Wilson’s hands. It’s not. “Vicodin?”

“Ibuprofen. Want one?”

“Got my own.”

The silence is comfortable. House mulls over how to phrase the question he’s been dying to ask. He goes half throttle. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

“What?” Wilson blanches at the question, or it could be a trick of the lighting.

“Our scars. Let’s trade war stories. You go first.”

“No deal. I know all I need to know about yours. Hospital gossip has its advantages.”

“Great, my story is out of the way. Your turn.”

“Why are you fascinated with my limp? I spotted you tracking me around the hospital. Am I doing it wrong?”

“Hey, tonight’s about sharing and bonding.”

“The sharing part…” Wilson eyes him suspiciously. “Wasn’t that when you ate my popcorn and drank my beer?”

“Didn’t anybody teach you pettiness is unbecoming?” House does up the top button of his jacket and buries his chin into the raised collar. “I know about your family—upper middle class from upper New York. Two brothers, one missing for more than a decade. You burned through three wives—“

“What?” Wilson’s face is furrowed into question and exclamation marks. “I never told you any of that.”

“Didn’t want you to waste your energy concocting lies.”

The fence jingles as the back of Wilson’s head strikes it. He avoids House’s eyes by gazing at the sky. “Alcohol, monster trucks, and interrogation. Best evening ever.”

“Hey, give up the information for the sake of our budding friendship. Don’t make me use my doctor creds to find it, but I will if I have to. What happened?”

“If I weren’t sitting, soused, crippled, and without my car…” Wilson shakes his head and sighs. “I was nine, walking to a friend’s house, crossing the street when a car swerved to avoid a dog. The dog won, I lost. The left side of my body was badly busted up. Before blacking out I saw my foot flapping like a bird. It was hanging by a thread.”

Thunder shudders overhead and accentuates the stillness of the night. House says nothing, waiting for Wilson to continue.

“The medical team was preparing to amputate when my parents arrived at the hospital. They begged the surgeon not to. They attempted a “Hail Moses” save. Guess no one had broken any of the Ten Commandments. It worked. End of story.”

By the tone of regret in Wilson’s voice and his own experience, House knows that’s not the end, but the beginning. The original surgery had to be the first of many, crutches and rehab, the fear of infection rebooting everything back to day one, echoes of pain from the accident never fading completely away.

“What, nothing to say? No comforting or sarcastic words about accidents, dogs, animal loving humans, or fate? Something to cement our friendship?” Wilson scoffs. The alcoholic muzziness is gone from his voice, and so is the camaraderie.

House’s heartbeat does a jitterbug. He may have driven the last strip of rubber off the new relationship. The weather isn’t helping. The sky rumbles a warning, and he stares overhead. Thick ghostly clouds create a negative of the sky. “Fate.” He pushes off the ground. “The cars and people are thinning, let’s get going before it rains.”

“Seriously? You think it’s fate that I got run over? I never took you for a fate guy.”

“Don’t get overdramatic about your accident. You were hit not run over, but that’s not what I meant. ‘Fixed, foot, fate.’ I know where the car is. F-ix as in six, F-eight. Six plus eight equals fourteen. Bingo.”

“F14?” Wilson’s eyebrows rise. “Is that how you solve cases?”

“Not until I met you. My current patient will be discharged tomorrow, thanks to the grocery list you left in your desk drawer.”

The pungent smell of ozone urges him on. House ignores Wilson’s disbelieving stare and points his cane. “This way.”

Wilson sticks close to his left-hand side, his hands shoved into his pockets. He steers clear of a flock of people congregating to the right of him as he makes a beeline to the outer perimeter.

Goosebumps prickle his neck. An unnatural, heavy silence presses against his ears. The stillness suggests the eye of a hurricane, but not weather related. The tinkle of glass rips the night’s velvety fabric, a pop and splash from a broken bottle. Whistles and whoops join more raining glass. Checking over his shoulder, the small crowd has grown larger, louder, and faster. Fists drum warnings on hoods and trunks. It’s an erratic, mindless mass, but whirling with Tasmanian devil intensity. Worse, it’s heading in their direction. A saving clap of thunder startles the crowd, slowing it, but they haven’t veered from their course.

House hears Wilson mutter, “Fuck” under his breath.

House grabs a loose fold of Wilson’s sleeve and yanks hard. “Move your ass.”

Wilson barks out a humorless laugh. “Us? Outrun a drunken mob of testosterone pumped teenagers? Pray we only get trampled.”

“No time to debate worst case scenarios.” House shifts to Wilson’s left side, slinging his right arm around Wilson’s shoulder. “We need to pool our resources. Ever participate in a three-legged race?”

Wilson’s expression transitions quickly from confusion to understanding. He snakes his arm under House’s right. “This is crazy.”

“Crazy is the only chance we got.” House shoves his head in the direction of the quiet part of the lot. “Eleven o’clock. Go!”

Naturally leading on their good legs, they move in rhythmic grunts. There’s no time to look back, but the thick air vibrates from the throng’s footfalls and House can make out taunting insults. His leg screams and he gulps air. The last remnant of Wilson’s inebriated state seems to be protecting him from any pain, but he’s biting his lip.

Outrunning the stampeding herd is impossible.

A cone of light shines over a small desert island of steel and chrome. Two clunkers sit side-by-side a couple of rows away. It make an ideal sanctuary to duck from the crowd.

House stumbles and falls. Wilson grabs him, but he shakes him off and points. “Don’t worry about me. “Aim for the Impala Death Star,” House huffs.

Wilson tightens his grip around House’s rib cage, and hoists him to his feet. House moves under his own power, but Wilson bears more of his weight than before, and lengthens his stride. The gap to little Detroit shortens. Almost there, a shower of plastic, glass, and aluminum containers dodge their heels, spraying their feet and legs. A bottle ricochets off House’s hip and explodes. Sparkling shards dance up from the ground. One streaks across House’s cheek, leaving in its wake a brief, searing pain.

By the time they tumble into the crevasse between the automobiles, Wilson is panting. A piercing thunderclap applauds their performance, momentarily shutting off the roar of the human storm. The din waxes then wanes. The threat is over, and they’re safely ensconced in their fortress. Flopping on the ground, House rubs the fire out of his thigh, and notices Wilson doing the same with his shin.

“Why did you save me out there?”

Wilson shrugs. “Leave no man behind.”

“Please. You were in the military? Have you ever watched a military movie in your life other than Private Benjamin?”

“A Few Good Men.” Wilson squints down the barrel of his unloaded index finger. “You can’t handle the truth.”

“Try me.”

“You have the car keys.”

House stifles a chuckle and slides closer to Wilson.

The moon makes another appearance, slipping out of the clouds, and House can see Wilson’s eyes are glittering with excitement. Earlier he had thought the evening was on the brink of disaster, but the unexpected events had worked in his favor. He preserves the silence, and swears to himself that he won’t ask any more intrusive questions. His dance card is filled for the evening.

As House’s breathing and heart rate resume normal levels, a veil of soft rain sweeps down from the clouds. House hauls himself upright and scans the terrain, but a strong arm pulls him back.

“What are you doing?” Wilson asks incredulously.

“Checking if the coast is clear, Sundance. My trusty steed is one aisle over.”

Wilson grins with relief, but the smile quickly fades away. His thumb brushes House’s cheek. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.” House catches Wilson’s wrist and watches his blood wash away. He studies the wet face. Wilson’s nose, cheekbones, and mouth are glossy from rainwater. The surfaces reflect like marble, but he isn’t a statue. Wilson lives and breathes, and his pulse races under House’s fingertips.

Wilson doesn’t pull his arm away. And damn him, he has a poker face. House waits for Wilson to speak first. Will he hold or fold?

“Do you have a first aid kit in your c—?”

House moves closer and nibbles Wilson’s last word off his lips, seeking reassurance as he goes deeper. Wilson reciprocates with a searching one of his own. They devour each other with kisses.

House is aware of his erection pushing against his jeans. As Wilson’s hand claws the button and zipper to rescue it from its cloth jail, another crash of thunder reverberates and an icy downpour drenches them. House moans as the chill seeps into his skin. Wilson looks as forlorn as he feels.

Is the moment ruined? “I have a first aid kit back at my place.”

“What are we waiting for?” Wilson struggles up and holds out his hand to House.

  


* * *

Before the elevator doors fully open, House charges into the corridor and bursts into Wilson’s office.

Wilson’s pants’ leg flaps like a flag in a breeze as he hastily moves his foot off the lower drawer where it was propped, but not before House sees the sock-covered swollen ankle and the untied shoe. He blinks aside the memory of the wrecked leg that he saw last night in the shower and later in bed. The image is instantly swept away and replaced by thoughts of the athletic activities he indulged in with Wilson.

After Wilson insisted on cleaning and bandaging the cut, they resumed where they had left off in the parking lot. Stripping off each other’s clothes, they warmed up in the shower. His memory is a blur of hard tile, slick skin and clouds of steam; he remembers his fingers stroking muscular flesh, and sheets and blankets turned into an unruly mess. God, what a night. A twitch in his pants tells him he's ready for more, but…

“Took you for a teddy bear not a whore. You were gone before dawn.” House says softly, but his voice sounds sharper than he intended.

Wilson pushes away from the desk, and stands up. He’s smiling, but something is wrong. House can see it in Wilson’s eyes.

“Unlike you, I don’t run a team, I’m part of Brown’s. There was an emergency.”

“Liar. You checked for messages at the main desk an hour ago.”

“After I saw my patient.” Wilson narrows his eyes and points to an empty space on the wall. “From lurking to stalking after one evening together. Should I hang a Fatal Attraction poster?”

In the light of day nothing is adding up. “About this closet you call an office. Cuddy caught me in the lobby when I walked in. You sent her an email turning down the office next to mine.”

“I changed my mind.” Wilson shrugs. “This is closer to my patients.”

“But further away when I need you for a consult.”

Wilson rubs his face with his hands. “About that…”

House slams his cane down on the desk. “Did I hallucinate last night? Was I too Angelina or too Bieb for you? Tell me.”

“It’s not you. Let’s drop it.” Wilson grabs for his lab coat.

The nagging sense of betrayal in the pit of House’s stomach flip-flops into panic, and he lashes out, rapping Wilson’s knuckles with his cane as he reaches for the doorknob.

“Ow! What’s the matter with you?” Wilson backs away, his good hand nursing his bruised one.

“You’re acting like last night never happened or will ever happen again. Like you regret ever meeting me.”

“You’re wrong. Or at least you were until you smashed my hand with tha-that weapon.” Hands in the air as if he’s being held at gunpoint, Wilson slowly backs away from the door to the opposite side of his office. The sunlight backlights his features until Wilson is a silhouette against a glaring white background, a moon falling into the sun.

House is desperate to make things right. He contemplates saying the three little words that’s on his mind.

He gives in to his worst fear and bows his head. He can’t look at Wilson when he says, “You hate me.”

Wilson shakes his head, and a sharp beep emits from his mouth.

* * *

_Beep_

Cold fingertips nudge at House’s hand.

_Beep_

House shakes off the fuzzy blanket of sleep that envelopes him.

“Are you having that dream again?” Wilson asks. The worry emanating from his eyes reeks like cheap perfume. “Why don’t you go home and get proper rest.”

If it weren’t for his eyes and hair, Wilson’s pale face would fade into the pillow, merely an outline of himself like a page from a coloring book. House inwardly flinches at the memory of seeing Wilson in ER. Below the neck he’s a Technicolor train wreck of bruises, cracked and broken ribs.

The monitor beeps again. The IV bag is low and needs to be replaced.

House withdraws his hand and presses the pain pump into the cool palm, changes the IV, and inspects the readings. He glances at the dressing of Wilson’s immobilized and elevated left leg. The bandages are fresh. He must have been sleeping while the nurse was in the room. What else had he missed?

“Mac gave me the prognosis on my foot.” Wilson says as if reading House’s mind.

House sits down, but focuses on bouncing his cane. “And?”

“He was impressed that you had so many favors to call in, including a top-notch surgeon to reattach it.”

Wilson lifts his finger and points at the water pitcher on the hospital table. House fills a cup and hands it to him.

A swallow and Wilson passes it back. “If all goes well, I’ll only be on crutches for two years. Maybe less. You know the drill.”

“And in between that time, more operations, PT, pain pills.” House nods curtly and adds. “With no guarantee that you won’t lose it before it’s healed.”

“House, don’t do this to yourself. Mac is a bastard, but he’s hopeful.”

“Hopeful, right,” House drawls. “The worst that can happen is you win first prize at the hospital’s Halloween contest as Peg Leg Wilson, pirate oncologist and scourge of seven medical departments.”

A soft, “Argh” issues from the bed.

House scowls. “No point in carrying on this conversation. You’re high as a kite.” He pushes off his chair. “I’ll go find Mac and talk to him.”

“Hold on. I’m drugged, but not out of my mind. What’s with you? You were determined to save my leg, now you’re pessimistic.”

The image of Wilson backing away from him in his dream can’t be shaken off. House blurts, “It’s all my fault for pushing the surgical team to save your leg. You’re gonna hate me.”

“For what? You’re not the driver who hit me. I’m not even angry with her. She was swerving to miss a dog.”

House shakes his head. “You don’t understand. Not now.”

“You mean for saving my foot? I’ve grown… attached to it.” Wilson’s voice drops to a whisper. “Very much the same way I feel about you.”

The sentiment is kind, but meaningless. Wilson looks tired. House should end the conversation, but wants everything out in the open. There’s no way he nor Wilson will be able to weather this calamity now that they took their twenty year friendship to the next level. This should be their honeymoon phase.

“You’re not cut out to be a cripple.” House explains simply, but watches carefully as Wilson absorbs the information.

He can see the wheels turning in Wilson’s head. He’ll be stuck in the house with limited mobility, absorbed in his own problems. Wilson the injured chick, not the mother hen. Wilson nods his understanding.

House looks away.

“So I’m the crippled kahuna in the relationship.” Wilson finally says with not a trace of venom. “You’re saying you can’t put up with my bad days when I’ll swear like a woman in labor. Yeah, that’s a lot to put up with. It would be hell for both of us.”

House returns his gaze back to Wilson and catches him wiping away a yawn. The eyelids are drooping over unfocused eyes. “Get over yourself, House. You’re not Stacy. You’re not a qui—“

The last word gets lost in sleep.

He doesn’t need a secret decoder ring to know what Wilson is saying. _Quitter_. House bows his head. Wilson may be drugged, but he’s right. They were never meant for happily ever after, but they were meant to be together. He covers Wilson’s hand with his own, settles back into his chair, and closes his eyes.


End file.
